


The Nightmare

by Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Holmes Brothers, One Shot, passive death wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 18:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms/pseuds/Violent_Winds_and_Waiting_Rooms
Summary: Sherlock wakes in a sweat. He hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or two at a time since he’d relapsed. His lack of sleep hadn’t been due to the particular cocktail he was on, no. The insomnia had been due to a particular nightmare.





	The Nightmare

Sherlock wakes in a sweat. He hadn’t been able to sleep more than an hour or two at a time since he’d relapsed. His lack of sleep hadn’t been due to the particular cocktail he was on, no. The insomnia had been due to a particular nightmare.

_Shelock walks down a long, dark hallway, doors to each side. Fluorescent lights line the bottoms of each door. The lights emit a buzzing noise reminiscent of bees. A man stands in the center of the hallway, hands clasped together on the handle of an umbrella. The umbrella’s end stabs the floor. The man’s eyes are unnaturally bright, calculating, cold. They exceed the lights in their intensity. Sherlock knows that if the man catches him, he is done for. He does no know what would happen if he is killed in his own mind, but he has no intent to find out. He turns and starts running in the opposite direction._

Sometimes in the nightmare the man grabs his arm before Sherlock wakes up. In other versions, the man calls out to him. The man doesn’t run, but can appear anywhere within seconds. The man’s suit changes, or tie, or shoes. Sometimes the lights are incandescent instead of fluorescent. Each nightmare has a single factor which does not change: the man is always there.

Sherlock paces around his apartment. He attempts to play violin for all of two minutes, but his hands shake and he has no patience. He skims his bookshelf, but nothing appears interesting. He has no samples to experiment with; Molly banned him from the morgue when he insulted her in a drug-induced rage. Sherlock looks around for the gun he has used to shoot holes in the walls, but John took it with him when he moved out.

The most obvious solution to Sherlock’s boredom had run dry. The absence of illicit substances had been a huge miscalculation on his part, partially due to overconsumption as well as his prime dealer going on holiday. He ground his teeth and attempted to look through his contact list for another dealer. His hands still shook too much. Sherlock made himself a compromise. If he was able to sleep through the night, the worst of his withdrawals would be over. If he woke, as was statistically probable, he would go to the more nefarious areas of town and restock his supplies. With that resolution in mind, Sherlock dramatically lays down. He starts reciting the properties of each element on the periodic table until his consciousness fades.

_Sherlock is once again in the hallway. The man stands about 3 yards away, facing him. An umbrella is grasped firmly in one hand. The man’s skin is pale, wax-like. He smirks. His expression is entirely without pity. The man has the eyes of a predator._

_The lights buzz. Sherlock steps forwards to face his fears._

_“Are you lost, brother mine?” the man asks tenderly, and holds out his hand. Sherlock exhales as relief floods his system. He takes his brother’s hand. Suddenly he realizes the hallway is not just a hallway but an underground subway station. His brother leads him through one of the doors into an elevator._

_The elevator lights are warm and bright. Sherlock lets go of his brother’s hand as the door slides shut and the elevator begins to rise. His brother’s features are illuminated. His eyes are just as bright, but wrinkles frame them. His skin does not seem waxy, but aged. One hand steadies himself on his umbrella. He rubs the fingers of his other hand together, then rubs them on his pants. “Too greasy,” Sherlock states. “Not cake. An éclair?”_

_The man rolls his eyes and sighs. “This is your stop,” Mycroft points out just as the elevator pings and the door slides open. “Do at least try not to get lost again.”_

Sherlock sleeps, dreamless, for the next 12 hours. He wakes feeling well-rested, and phones Lestrade to inquire about unsolved cases.


End file.
